


being this godly cant be good

by Princex_N



Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Delusions, Disorganized Thoughts, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Paranoia, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:15:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24634417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princex_N/pseuds/Princex_N
Summary: Prophet of the apocalypse, there to lead the lambs and slaughter the wolves, are you capable, are you able, are you willing?
Kudos: 9
Collections: Religiously Themed Delirium





	being this godly cant be good

**Author's Note:**

> title from [mother mother's song 'oh ana'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=djS5XuvRafM)

Brian watches and he knows, but sometimes he wishes he didn't have to. 

There's a pressure in it, a heavy responsibility on his shoulders he almost doesn't know what to do with. He's the only one able to hold all the pieces because he's the only one who can see the whole board. He knows where they all are, what they're doing, and he knows that he's the one who has to corral them into their roles and keep them all on track. He's the only one who can, the only one willing and able, it all depends on him, whether they know it or not. 

Sometimes he thinks he might be tired of it. 

He's been doing it for years, years spent collecting and preparing and allowing everything else to fall to the wayside, the slow build of rot and trash into piles all around him because there was simply no _time_ for any of it. No time to clean, or to organize, or to _eat_ because there was work that needed to be done. They were wasting the years but he was _not_ , he was preparing, _waiting_ for the right moment when everything began to unfold. An itch under his skin that grew and grew, Brian was _ready_ when the time came, but he thinks he's still waiting for the pay off. 

He's as much pawn as them, the sight he's been granted does not protect him from the hunters. He's fighting to keep himself out from between those teeth the same way he fights for them, he wishes they would stop trying to press him back into the snapping jaws.

On nights like this he considers giving up, giving in. Running to abandon them to their ignorance or to try and join their ranks, but he knows better. Tim might have gotten away with it, but the two of them are not the same anymore, and the risk runs too high. Brian doesn't know what the proximity could bring, but he knows it would only ever lead to hurt, one way or another. He can guide and protect them from a distance, but up close? 

Brian's a wild animal too, and he can never quite be sure when the snarling wild inside of himself might choose to lash out. 

There's a righteous flood inside of his veins, and it would be indiscriminate when spilled. Ready and willing and able to demolish the wolves and put out their flames, and there's no hope for any of them anymore, but safety doesn't exist near him and that's a certainty that can be avoided. 

There's a rancid miasma circling in his skull, dripping black ichor out between his teeth and over his lips. It smothers and presses and clouds everything around him - it's Brian's job to know but he can't figure out what's wrong. It digs under his skin like insects and he claws his nails against flesh in a fool's attempt to pull them all loose. 

Brian isn't g-d and doesn't ever really think that he is, but sometimes he can almost taste it on his tongue. Something holy and vital, a blessing or something worse, but there all the same. Not protection, not true help, but there, insistent and demanding attention, a hot pressure in his mouth. Bursting like blood and coating metal down the back of his throat. 

It feels dangerous. He can't deny it's intoxicating too. 

There is something wrong - there has _been_ something wrong, but Brian can't find the solution in the fog or pull apart the static fragment soundbites in his skull to spell it out either. It settles in him, behind his eyes, in the soft tissue in his skull, inside the cage of his ribs, and it decays, necrotic tissue spreading rot throughout his system until he's snarling into the quiet of the forest. Brian doesn't understand, but he knows that this is not something that can be fixed. Infection spread too deep to cut out, he swallows water from the stream and aches to let it into his lungs to cleanse him from the inside out, but it would only be temporary if it would work at all. The rot is inside him, yes, but the source of the poison haunts out in his shadows and between the mock shelter of the trees. Brian could clear out the rot inside of himself piece by piece and still find more because it would never let him go free, not anymore. 

Sometimes he wonders if it wouldn't be easier to let it just take him. Welcome the moss and lichen and fungi into his veins and let it sprout from under his nails and out of his throat. Lie down in the running water and let it claim him and let himself _rest_ , Brian is tired and as time drags on it only gets worse instead of better. 

But spite keeps him moving, keeps him upright. If he dies before his crusade is over then It will claim him before the woods ever could, and that's anger enough to keep him pushing forward through the exhaustion. At least it's something, just barely enough to carry him to the sanctuary at the edge of the forest. 

Static fog still smothers, lighting adrenaline in his blood and nausea in his gut. It wouldn't let him truly rest even if he was willing to let himself give in. 

He doesn't quite pray, but they tolerate his presence behind the altar of the cathedral. He'd tried to explain, one of the first times that he had wandered inside, that the candles weren't right, but they hadn't understood, and they only leave him alone if he leaves the flames alone in return. 

He tolerates it. The house of g-d won't actually protect him, wouldn't be able to even if he _could_ find a proper temple, he knows, but the thin illusion of safety is more than he can find anywhere else. A veil of delusion to hold off the threat. It doesn't do anything for him, not really, but it's placebo enough to get him through the evenings. 

There are other people here too, coming and going with more purpose than Brian has here, he can't see into their heads because they are neither wolf nor flock, but he doesn't mind. They talk to him, sometimes, and he listens. It's almost nice. They listen to him in return, tripping prose and mangled scripture, he knows that his speech is as scrambled as his uploads but can never bother to decode it for them, it's safer that way, but they don't seem to mind. The man who sweeps between the pews and prays under his breath for protection as if Brian is something that could be saved. The choir singer who is always early, sharing her fruit and trail mix if he washes the mud out from under his nails first. The priest who doesn't mind that Brian is more jewish than catholic, and that his brain is more broken than either, taking the discussion of theology and turning into something that could almost make sense. 

Brian knows he shouldn't get close. Keeps his name to himself and never brings his camera across the threshold, never lets himself fall asleep on the pews next to the basin of holy water. He's a plague rat in the sanctuary, and the privilege of being treated like a real person again is pure selfishness that keeps him returning, but he tries to settle the debts where he can. Tucks rocks into the entryways and marks mud along the windowsill. An offering and apology all at once. A new parishioner called the police once and Brian ducked into the woods before the threat of violence could call in the wolves to the smell of blood. He tries. It's not enough, but hopefully his crusade will reach an end before the miasma stains the wood under his feet. 

There's not enough to protect him anymore. He can cling to gilded gold and the rush of creek water, but he knows better. There's nothing whispering his fate in his ears, the voice of g-d doesn't reach down to him, but he feels the certainty like an itch under his skin. Brian knows because that is what Brian does. There is nothing else and there will be nothing _after_ this, he accepts their kindness but rejects their offers because there's simply no point, and Brian knows it even if they don't. 

He lets the shadows taunt him, the unsteady flicker growth of flame light creeping teasing against the corners of his eyes. Sometimes it's all he can do to restrain himself from lashing out, snuffing them cold before it comes as if called. He sits cold, contained, lets the quiet wrap around him and push him towards something almost calm. It's not enough, it won't ever be, but it's all he can give himself, the best he can do. He sits, watches the light reflect off the water next to him and almost lets himself think it beautiful, ignores the sad eyes of the people around him until he hears the patter of rain against the stained glass. Then he rises, curls on their steps to let the rain curl cold comfort over the back of his neck and drench the fabric of his clothes heavy with salvation. Searches for the memories of Before to be polite when he refuses their offers of umbrellas or the shelter inside, makes an effort to explain its safety and deliverance. They don't understand, but Brian does. 

He wishes he didn't. He hopes they never have to learn. 

**Author's Note:**

> does anyone actually feel safe in churches? is anyone really feeling safe at all?
> 
> [my tumblr](https://www.princex-n.tumblr.com)


End file.
